I'm watching Brideshead Revisited. I think my new plan is to move to England to be a permanent extra in British period pieces. All those peaked lapels and salty wool. Makes me swoon just thinking of it.
Is that a tough gig to get?
Monday, March 9, 2009
*Extra*
I'm watching Brideshead Revisited. I think my new plan is to move to England to be a permanent extra in British period pieces. All those peaked lapels and salty wool. Makes me swoon just thinking of it.
Is that a tough gig to get?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
"The unhappiness of not being happy."
So, a lot has happened since I started this thing (hence the huge silent pause after the few first submissions). Too much to even go into, but some thoughts for scheming had crossed my mind:
This all wreaks of desperation; of having to come up with an actual plan. Shit!
The ironic part is that I am actually quite good at "fixing" other people's issues (not in a sycophantic kind of way) ~ I studied Conflict Resolution back in the day. Yet, when it comes to my own junk, I feel dim-witted and slow. Why is it that our minds seem to be stuck in this tediously crawl when we wish we could figure it out already?
Patience, right?
I am reading Eric Weiner's book The Geography of Bliss, thinking maybe I'll find some jumping off point. (Or Eat, Pray, Love. Should I just follow everyone else's prescribed travel-to-find-enlightenment texts?) But there was a telling quote from the Geography book:
Huh, guess I'm not there yet.
- to slip on ice (as I have already done) and sue the building owners to make some cash
- to have let that speeding police cruiser actually crash into me when he took a wide turn en route to a chase, and sue the city for damages (which I am pretty sure they don't pay out)
- to try to "make something of myself" and get my MBA in entrepreneurial studies (but that seemed like it would take some effort, so I crossed it off my list)
- to take a brief leave of absence from work, and have an adventure in another city (I guess that's more of a day dream than a scheme...)
- make a road trip documentary with my best friend Jules and sell it to some fun network, like logo ("tranny road show?")
- burn myself on McDonald's coffee, or find a finger tip in my chili at Wendy's (if only I drank coffee, or ate chili, plus it's not inventive enough. already been done. must stay ahead of the curve)
This all wreaks of desperation; of having to come up with an actual plan. Shit!
The ironic part is that I am actually quite good at "fixing" other people's issues (not in a sycophantic kind of way) ~ I studied Conflict Resolution back in the day. Yet, when it comes to my own junk, I feel dim-witted and slow. Why is it that our minds seem to be stuck in this tediously crawl when we wish we could figure it out already?
Patience, right?
I am reading Eric Weiner's book The Geography of Bliss, thinking maybe I'll find some jumping off point. (Or Eat, Pray, Love. Should I just follow everyone else's prescribed travel-to-find-enlightenment texts?) But there was a telling quote from the Geography book:
Maybe happiness is this: not feeling like you should be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else.
Huh, guess I'm not there yet.
Cliché clique
(this is from about a month ago... going to try to get back into the swing of this.)
I am sitting with my laptop “telecommuting” and blogging at a Starbuck’s in Logan Circle in DC. Oh my fucking god, I hate myself right now. I never come to Starbuck’s, not because I am some raging activist, but simply because I don’t drink coffee. (Or anything with caffeine really, since I get debilitating migraines. I know, I am infinitely more lame for admitting that now. Caffeine-free; it's never sexy...)
I am here because I got up early to drop my car off to get an oil leak checked. Not only am I a walking cliché, but at this Starbuck’s apparently I am a lounging cliché, too. With so many gay men here for their morning pick me ups, I had on almost the exact same outfit as one of my ‘mo counter parts. The main difference is that I am drinking herbal tea, and eating an apple fritter. The one tell tale sign that I am not a gay man: my affinity for sugary delights (as well as my imbibing of beer, and colorful alcoholic beverages, rather than just vodka tonics…) but I digress.
Now car-less, I resort to swimming downstream. Mainstream. Walking to a Starbuck’s. God, how much do I sound like a bourgie asshole right now? Sad to see one’s self for what I am.
Listening to the prescribed soundtrack at this coffee shop, I wish I had some talent to “sell out.” I wish I was still in a band, but one that could turn a tune and make a buck. Wishing that I could find some corporate compilation to woo me into submission.
The truth is: I want to submit.
I had a big realization the other day that much of my life has been wrought with resistance, riddled with conflict. Tensions within my family, my inability as a child to self-soothe, and therefore spinning out of control emotionally, feeling like everything was just beyond my reach.
It sucks to grow up and realize that I have to take responsibility, and have to be the one to change the patterns that I now recognize. I am trying to yield. I am trying to learn how to resist the temptation to resist. I know, dumb, right?
I don’t want to fight everything anymore. Not everything has to be a plight. Some things can just be simple. I mean, can’t they? Where do the Zen mantras I learned from watching the Oprah show end, and my own affinity for psychological awareness, spiritual pining and general wellness begin? (Insert sarcastic grin here___.) Fuck.
In the first entry I said that: “I want to want something.” The truth is that I already do. Much of my life has been circling around wanting things “too much,” and then trying to wean myself off of that desire accordingly.
I want to be in love. I want to have multiple careers as a writer, a creative/inventive business director, a philanthropist supporting the arts and social welfare, and work towards developing programs that focus on assisting “at risk” humans and animals. (I mean, who among us doesn’t need our own metaphorical “Dog Whisperer” to rehabilitate us from the fucked up patterns we cycle through?)
There is a struggle for me to realize and truly meditate on what I want, and the process I subtly find emerging, where I unknowingly convince myself that maybe I shouldn’t want those things. Why should I feel like I deserve to be a “personality” when clearly those who want it badly enough are already there? I used to want to be an artist, as I was classically trained as a metal smith, and gave all of it up when I started to win national awards at a young age. There was a resistance within me to give way to that path. Is it a fear of success? A fear of disappointing people if they want me and then find out I am not as good as I appear to be?
This concept of selling out seems somewhat dreamy in this moment of listening to Mary J. Blige on this commercially chosen café soundtrack. I want the external affirmations of someone else telling me: “I really loved that one thing you did. I want it for myself in this specific way.” I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to do anything, except say “yes or no.” It’s much easier to sell out than market the fucking hell out of yourself when you are just not sure.
Put a fucking bull’s eye on my back: “I am not ready. I am not what you want.”
Okay, rather than becoming the “Debbie downer” that I risk settling into here… I have been thinking about inspiration. How does it get sparked within us? I began to wonder, what is it exactly that propels us to where we “should be?” How do we develop the personal monologue to guide us there? (Meaning: How do we cancel out the negative self talk that sabotages our early strategizing on our new courses?)
Later, I began thinking about all of the works of art, the well coined pop songs, the fractured cinematic moments that have inspired me to want more for my life. And this curiosity began to surface in me, as I wondered what kernels of inspiration struck those particular inventors while creating those pieces that have forever changed my psycho-emotional landscape.
In short: What if all of the people that have inspired me the most were simply as stuck in their own inertia and self doubt, like I feel at times? What pieces would never have been created? What incredible provocations would the world have missed?
Man Ray once said something to the effect of: A bad doctor, a bad politician, or a bad chef can kill people. But a bad artist will just bore people, and not make them think.
Huh, and why was it that I was so afraid of living this meager life to the fullest? There is something pretty liberating about that statement. Maybe I should give some of this a "go". I mean, what's the worst that can happen? Right? (now watch, one of these "twisting my stache" ideas will end up maming someone, or worse: get a tall frappaccino with foam on the next hot day. sigh~)
I am sitting with my laptop “telecommuting” and blogging at a Starbuck’s in Logan Circle in DC. Oh my fucking god, I hate myself right now. I never come to Starbuck’s, not because I am some raging activist, but simply because I don’t drink coffee. (Or anything with caffeine really, since I get debilitating migraines. I know, I am infinitely more lame for admitting that now. Caffeine-free; it's never sexy...)
I am here because I got up early to drop my car off to get an oil leak checked. Not only am I a walking cliché, but at this Starbuck’s apparently I am a lounging cliché, too. With so many gay men here for their morning pick me ups, I had on almost the exact same outfit as one of my ‘mo counter parts. The main difference is that I am drinking herbal tea, and eating an apple fritter. The one tell tale sign that I am not a gay man: my affinity for sugary delights (as well as my imbibing of beer, and colorful alcoholic beverages, rather than just vodka tonics…) but I digress.
Now car-less, I resort to swimming downstream. Mainstream. Walking to a Starbuck’s. God, how much do I sound like a bourgie asshole right now? Sad to see one’s self for what I am.
Listening to the prescribed soundtrack at this coffee shop, I wish I had some talent to “sell out.” I wish I was still in a band, but one that could turn a tune and make a buck. Wishing that I could find some corporate compilation to woo me into submission.
The truth is: I want to submit.
I had a big realization the other day that much of my life has been wrought with resistance, riddled with conflict. Tensions within my family, my inability as a child to self-soothe, and therefore spinning out of control emotionally, feeling like everything was just beyond my reach.
It sucks to grow up and realize that I have to take responsibility, and have to be the one to change the patterns that I now recognize. I am trying to yield. I am trying to learn how to resist the temptation to resist. I know, dumb, right?
I don’t want to fight everything anymore. Not everything has to be a plight. Some things can just be simple. I mean, can’t they? Where do the Zen mantras I learned from watching the Oprah show end, and my own affinity for psychological awareness, spiritual pining and general wellness begin? (Insert sarcastic grin here___.) Fuck.
In the first entry I said that: “I want to want something.” The truth is that I already do. Much of my life has been circling around wanting things “too much,” and then trying to wean myself off of that desire accordingly.
I want to be in love. I want to have multiple careers as a writer, a creative/inventive business director, a philanthropist supporting the arts and social welfare, and work towards developing programs that focus on assisting “at risk” humans and animals. (I mean, who among us doesn’t need our own metaphorical “Dog Whisperer” to rehabilitate us from the fucked up patterns we cycle through?)
There is a struggle for me to realize and truly meditate on what I want, and the process I subtly find emerging, where I unknowingly convince myself that maybe I shouldn’t want those things. Why should I feel like I deserve to be a “personality” when clearly those who want it badly enough are already there? I used to want to be an artist, as I was classically trained as a metal smith, and gave all of it up when I started to win national awards at a young age. There was a resistance within me to give way to that path. Is it a fear of success? A fear of disappointing people if they want me and then find out I am not as good as I appear to be?
This concept of selling out seems somewhat dreamy in this moment of listening to Mary J. Blige on this commercially chosen café soundtrack. I want the external affirmations of someone else telling me: “I really loved that one thing you did. I want it for myself in this specific way.” I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to do anything, except say “yes or no.” It’s much easier to sell out than market the fucking hell out of yourself when you are just not sure.
Put a fucking bull’s eye on my back: “I am not ready. I am not what you want.”
Okay, rather than becoming the “Debbie downer” that I risk settling into here… I have been thinking about inspiration. How does it get sparked within us? I began to wonder, what is it exactly that propels us to where we “should be?” How do we develop the personal monologue to guide us there? (Meaning: How do we cancel out the negative self talk that sabotages our early strategizing on our new courses?)
Later, I began thinking about all of the works of art, the well coined pop songs, the fractured cinematic moments that have inspired me to want more for my life. And this curiosity began to surface in me, as I wondered what kernels of inspiration struck those particular inventors while creating those pieces that have forever changed my psycho-emotional landscape.
In short: What if all of the people that have inspired me the most were simply as stuck in their own inertia and self doubt, like I feel at times? What pieces would never have been created? What incredible provocations would the world have missed?
Man Ray once said something to the effect of: A bad doctor, a bad politician, or a bad chef can kill people. But a bad artist will just bore people, and not make them think.
Huh, and why was it that I was so afraid of living this meager life to the fullest? There is something pretty liberating about that statement. Maybe I should give some of this a "go". I mean, what's the worst that can happen? Right? (now watch, one of these "twisting my stache" ideas will end up maming someone, or worse: get a tall frappaccino with foam on the next hot day. sigh~)
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